


Open Book

by pineapplefan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John, Angst, Anxiety, Awesome Bobby, Burns, Crisis, Crying, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hugs, Insecurity, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Sick Sam, Teenchesters, Vomiting, Worried Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7075096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplefan/pseuds/pineapplefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was always able to read Sam like an open book.</p><p>Until he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

PART I

Sam was waiting for Dean on the otherwise deserted benches behind the school.

As Dean approached him, he realized that Sam's legs were pulled up to his chest and he was perched on the seat of the bench with his face buried in his knees.

In hindsight, that should have been another indication that something was wrong.

Instead, Dean ignored it and used it as an opportunity. He tiptoed in a wide circle so he could sneak up on Sam from behind. He crept up behind his brother and paused before grabbing his shoulders and shouting, "Sammy, look out!"

Sam startled, narrowly missing butting heads with Dean when he jumped.

Dean cackled and ruffled Sam's hair. "Oh, man, Sammy. That'll never get old."

Sam pushed Dean's arm away. "Jerk," he declared. He ran his hands over his face and dropped his legs to the ground. "What took you so long?" he asked, as he reached for his backpack and stood up. "And don't tell me you were talking to another _girl_."

"Dude, what's your rush?" Dean asked, as they started their trek back to the rundown motel they were staying at. "Besides, I'll have you know, I was talking to _Mr. Turner_. He made me stay after so he could oh-so-kindly tell me I'm at risk for failing his class." He paused for a second. "And _then_ I talked to another girl. Leanna Hendricks." Dean let out a low whistle and wiggled his eyebrows. "She's the mayor's daughter."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I knew it." He peered up at Dean through shaggy bangs. "What class?"

"Uh, pretty sure she's upper class, Sammy," Dean said, with a twinkle in his eye. "Considering her dad's the mayor and all." He knew that wasn't what Sam was asking, he just felt like being a pain in the ass.

"You're an idiot," Sam said, punching him lightly in the shoulder. "I meant, what class are you failing?"

Dean let out a sigh. "English," he admitted. "We have a test on Monday – but it's open book, so I'm not too worried."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You should be," he said. "Open book tests are usually tougher than closed book ones. Teachers tend to make the questions really nitpicky, Dean, and it'll be obvious if you haven't read. Especially if what I've heard about Mr. Turner being the toughest teacher at the school is true."

"Well, I still have all weekend to study," Dean said with a shrug.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

That earned Sam a retaliation punch in the shoulder. "Bitch," Dean professed fondly. "What about you, huh? How was your day?"

Sam's face clouded and he looked down at his feet. "It was fine," he said dully.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Whoa, hold back, Sammy. Don't talk my ear off or nothin'."

Sam rolled his eyes again. "It was school, Dean. What do you want me to say?"

 _Anything_ , Dean thought miserably. Dean wasn't sure if he should chalk it up to Sam being an average teenager, but the kid had been a lot quieter these days – more sarcastic and just overall grumpy. He smiled less and slept more. It was driving Dean nuts.

"I don't know, man. You used to give me a detailed soliloquy about every day."

"Soliloquy?" Sam repeated. "Really?"

Dean feigned hurt. "Hey, I know some words." He shuffled his feet and kicked up his foot to playfully kick Sam in his hind end. "So?" he prompted.

"Dean, just lay off, will you? There's nothing to say. It was a boring day at school. I'll spare you the details."

Dean raised his hands in mock defeat. "Okay, okay. Boring day, that's all I'm gonna get out of you. Got it."

They'd arrived back at the motel now and the first thing Dean noticed was that the Impala was parked out front.

John was back.

When Dean unlocked the door, Sam slid past him to inside before Dean even had the chance to push the door open himself. The kid deposited his backpack on his bed and mumbled a quiet "hey, Dad," to the man sitting at the table, before he closed himself in the bathroom.

John frowned after his youngest before setting down the newspaper he was reading and turning his attention to his oldest. "What's up with him?" he asked, nodding at the bathroom door.

"Gee, I dunno, Dad. Maybe he had to take a leak." Dean said casually. The last thing he wanted was for John to comment on Sam's "attitude problem" again. It would just start another argument that Dean would get stuck in the middle of. It had been happening more and more lately. Dean closed the door behind him. "Hello to you, too."

John grinned abashedly. "Sorry. Hello, son."

"You're back earlier than I expected."

John chuckled. "Yeah, well, the case was a bust. Sometimes it really is just an animal attack."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "No kiddin'?" He leaned on the back of the chair across from his dad.

"No kiddin'," John confirmed. "But Bobby has another case already lined up for me. Poltergeist about 140 miles east of here, in Northern Mississippi. I'll head out tonight, and I figure I'll stick around for a bit, see if there's any more action out that way."

"Timeframe?" Dean asked, the way he always did when talking business.

"Two weeks, tops," John answered. "Think you can manage to hold down the fort?"

"Yessir."

John nodded curtly and stood up. "Help me bring in the guns, son. I'd like you and Sam to give 'em a wash before I go. Might even earn you a nice dinner." He winked at Dean and followed him out the door when he obeyed.

When they returned, Dean was surprised to find that Sam was still in the bathroom. He crossed the room to tap on the door. "Sam? You all right in there?"

It was quiet for a moment before Sam answered. "Yeah, m'fine. Be right out."

"'Kay. We're on gun duty."

"Awesome," came Sam's dry reply. "Nothing I'd rather do."

John opened his mouth to reprimand Sam's back-talk, but Dean held a hand up to stop him.

"Dad, don't," he advised quietly. "Go easy on him, okay? I don't think he's feelin' too hot."

Dean, of course, didn't know for sure if Sam was unwell, but he didn't have any better explanation for Sam's attitude as of late. And if his theory helped to keep the peace… then so be it.

xxx

_My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip._

Dean read the opening paragraph of _Great Expectations_ and groaned inwardly because he was already bored out of his skull. There was no way he was going to read this book. He tossed it aside.

He was leaned up against the headboard, waiting for Sam to emerge from the longest shower of all time.

He hoped he wasn't using up all the hot water.

Dean had watched Sam closely during dinner, still trying to gauge if he was coming down with something or not. He'd picked around at his food a bit, but Sam was a picky eater and he always did that.

John had even flat-out asked the kid if he was feeling all right, and Sam had answered with a shrug. "M'fine," he'd mumbled, eyes downcast at the table.

 _Teenager_ , Dean reminded himself. _He's just being a grumpy, hormonal teenager._

It didn't suit him.

xxx

"Dean?" Sam said hesitantly from the bathroom doorway.

He was leaning against the doorframe, freshly clothed in a pair of sweats.

"Well, look who it is!" Dean said. "I'm surprised you didn't turn into prune, with how long you were in that shower."

Sam didn't acknowledge his brother's sub-par joke. "Dean," he said again, and his voice shook. "I don't feel good."

Dean's heart sank. He muted the TV and sat up. "Shit, Sam," he breathed. _I knew it._ He crossed the room and ushered Sam to his bed. "What's the matter?"

Sam bit down on his lip and looked away from Dean's concerned gaze. He lifted a single shoulder up in a shrug.

"Is it your stomach?" Dean hedged, remembering Sam's long session in the bathroom and the way he picked at his dinner.

Sam seemed to hesitate, but then he nodded.

"Have you gotten sick?" Dean asked, worry creeping into his gut.

Sam shook his head no.

"Do you think you might?"

Another shrug.

Sam's lack of words was infuriating. But the kid wasn't feeling well, so Dean decided to give him a pass on the exact thing that made him want to wring his neck.

 _I should get a damn award_.

Dean checked his brother's forehead, and was relieved to find that Sam didn't seem to be running a fever. Then he got the kid set up with a glass of water, a wastebasket by his bed, and orders to get some zzz's to sleep off whatever he was coming down with.

Sam didn't hesitate to oblige.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean stayed up late that night, trying – and failing – to read _Great Expectations_ , while mentally kicking himself for not realizing that Sam wasn't feeling well sooner.

The fact that Sam had come right out and said it, had _admitted_ that he didn't feel well, was really troubling Dean. Sam never does that. He doesn't like being babied, and always tries to downplay any illness, no matter how serious.

Dean remembers, when Sam was eleven, he got a case of tonsillitis that was so bad his throat swelled up to the point the kid passed out from lack of oxygen. Up until then, Sam had insisted it was just a cold. Dean had allowed him to go to school and everything, despite the feeling in his gut that told him Sam was sicker than he was letting on.

After that, Dean always had his guard up at the first clue that Sam was sick.

He assumed that's why he was wide-awake and alert now. He was just waiting for Sam to need him in some way, whether it be a spiked fever or a rebelling stomach.

But it never happened.

Sam was still sleeping soundly when 2:00 am rolled around and Dean decided it was safe to get some shut-eye.

xxx

"Sammy." Dean shook his brother's shoulder lightly. "Hey, you gotta wake up for me."

Sam opened a bleary eye. "S't'rday," he protested with a moan.

Dean chuckled. "I know it's Saturday, but you've been asleep for 14 straight hours. Time to hydrate." He pulled the covers off Sam's body and hauled him into the sitting position. "You feeling any better this morning?"

Sam considered. "Yeah, a little bit," he said quietly. He still wouldn't look Dean in the eyes.

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for the untouched glass of water on the nightstand. "Here, dude. I wasn't kidding about hydrating."

Sam glowered at the glass, but ended up drinking half the water under Dean's watchful eye.

"Your stomach still upset?" Dean asked.

"Not really," Sam mumbled, noncommittally. "I don't know."

His voice sounded tired. Forced.

Dean pressed a hand up against Sam's forehead and found that his brother was still cool as a cucumber.

"Dean, stop," Sam said. "I'm okay."

Dean drew his hand back. "Sorry, man. It just ain't like you to admit when you're not feeling well."

"I'm okay," Sam said again. "Didn't mean to worry you." He scrubbed his hands over his face and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Gotta take a leak." He mustered up a half-hearted smile and then trudged into the bathroom.

xxx

Despite Sam's consistent claims of _I'm okay, Dean_ , he still stayed in bed, sleeping or mindlessly watching TV, nearly the entire day. He only got up to use the bathroom.

Dean pressed canned soup and saltines on him when he was awake, and was relieved that Sam's stomach was able to handle it.

It was a lazy day, to say the least. Dean had muddled through three chapters of _Great Expectations_ , and by the time 7:00 rolled around he was itching to get out of the motel.

Typically, Dean would head out to the bars without a second thought since Sam was old enough to stay alone – the dork normally did homework on Saturday nights anyway. Dean also had a surplus of convincing fake IDs and was blessed with looking older than eighteen, so he was never questioned when he stepped foot in a bar.

But tonight, Dean was leery of leaving Sam on his own. The day had gone by without incident, but Dean knew from past experiences how quickly Sam could go downhill when he was sick.

"You still doin' okay over there, Sam?" Dean asked from the table, where he was reading the newspaper.

"Yeah." Sam was absently flipping channels, causing the sound to cut in and out. It was driving Dean nuts.

"Hey," Dean said suddenly when his eyes landed on a certain section of the newspaper. "You want to catch a flick? There's a dollar movie theater two blocks from here."

Sam shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

"Yeah?" Dean asked. "You're feeling well enough?"

"To watch a movie? Yeah, I think I can swing that."

Dean chuckled. That was the most Sam had said all day. "Sweet. _Campfire Tales_ starts at 8:10."

"Horror film?" Sam asked.

"What do you think?"

Sam gave a thumbs-up and smirked. It was one of their favorite pastimes: watching crappy scary movies and getting a kick out of how poorly written and obscure they were. Going to see it on a big screen was a rare treat. Normally, the boys settled for watching their flick-of-choice on the outdated TV set of whatever motel they were staying in.

xxx

 _Campfire Tales_ was about as cheesy as they come, which is what Sam and Dean lived for. Four teenagers wreck their car in the middle of nowhere, stumble upon a campsite, build a fire, and tell ghost stories. It was four stories rolled into an overarching plot, which Dean – always the critic – thought was unique and creative. The movie was suspenseful enough and Dean enjoyed being able to laugh inwardly at the crowd's reactions. The scariest parts, of course, didn't faze him at all, but he got a kick out of the screams and whimpers surrounding them.

Sam stayed awake the entire movie, but wasn't laughing along with Dean like he usually did. It was like he had come along just for Dean's benefit and was going through the motions.

When the movie ended and the lights came on, Dean looked over at his brother, and for a split-second he thought he saw tear tracks on Sam's cheeks. It made Dean's stomach drop into his toes.

But then Sam rubbed his hands over his face and when he removed them he had a smile on his face. Dean couldn't be sure if his little brother had been crying or if he was just imagining things.

"Did you like the movie, Dean?" Sam asked, in a voice that sounded overly cheerful, when he realized Dean was staring at him.

"Yeah, it was decent," Dean answered, still studying Sam's face. He couldn't tell if Sam's eyes looked red and puffy or not. "Did you like it?"

Sam nodded. "Thanks for bringing me, Dean. I-I had a lot of fun."

That was all the convincing it took – Sam's eyes were definitely watery with unshed tears and Dean was fairly certain his voice had wobbled when he spoke.

Dean took a tender hold of his brother's arm. "Sammy, what's the matter?" he asked lowly. People were still filing out of the theater as the credits rolled.

Sam swallowed hard, looking away from Dean's concerned gaze. "I'm okay," he insisted again. "I'm just tired. Can we go now?"

Dean hesitated, but he didn't want Sam to get worked up in a public place, so he didn't press the matter.

"Sure, kid. Let's go."

xxx

On the walk back to the motel, Sam vomited into a trashcan that was outside a local boutique.

It happened so quickly.

Once second Sam was walking beside Dean, brooding with his hands jammed in his pockets, the next he was hunched over the metal receptacle, throwing up the meager contents of his stomach.

No warning.

Dean kept a hand on the kid's back while he rode through the nausea and shielded him from the prying eyes of passerby.

"You good?" Dean asked, when Sam seemed to have caught his breath.

Sam spit one more time into the trashcan and nodded.

"Okay, come on, let's get you home."

xxx

"I thought you were feeling better," Dean said, handing an opened water bottle to his brother who was propped up by pillows.

Sam had gone straight to bed when they got back, detouring only to brush his teeth.

"I was, Sam maintained. "I am."

Dean raised his eyebrows, unbelieving. "Your hands are shaking," he noted, as Sam brought the water up to his mouth to take a cautious sip.

Sam swallowed and handed the bottle back to Dean. "That's 'cause I hate throwing up."

Dean heart ached with sympathy. "I know you do, kid." He reached up to feel Sam's forehead. Still cool. "You need anything?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm good. You can quit hovering."

Dean chuckled and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, I hear you," he said. Then he turned on his big-brother no-nonsense voice. "Wake me up if you need anything, Sam. I mean it." He pulled the covers up to Sam's chin and patted his chest. "Get some sleep, man."

Sam let out a wavering sigh. "I will. G'night, Dean."

He pulled the covers up over his shoulder and turned on his side, facing the wall.

And even though Dean was still sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, could still feel the warmth of Sam's back pressed into his, he had never felt so distant from his brother in his life.

With a sigh, Dean squeezed the kid's shoulder and stood up.

He slipped into his own bed and flipped on the TV, turning the volume down low, prepared to sit vigil for the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean woke up the following morning to find Sam at the table eating a bowl of cereal and pouring over a textbook.

Dean pushed himself up and squinted at the clock. It was just after 11:00.

"Mornin'," he greeted his brother. He wiped a tired hand over his face as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "How long have you been up?"

Sam looked up from his book. "Hey. Coupla hours."

"I didn't hear you get up."

Sam smirked. "I know. That's because I was quiet. I know you stayed up late last night."

Dean nodded. That was true. He had finally given into sleep around 3:00.

"How're you feelin'?"

"Better."

Dean looked his brother over, watching as Sam shoveled in bite after bite of Cheerios like the growing teenage boy that he was. It appeared he had his appetite back. That's when Dean also realized that Sam had changed out of his sweats and was wearing athletic shorts and a T-shirt. He raised his eyebrows. "You plannin' on working out or something?"

"I already did."

"What?

"I went for a run this morning," Sam said casually.

"You're not serious."

"Uh, yeah I am. Four miles."

Dean stood up. He couldn't wrap his mind around what Sam was saying. "After the state you were in yesterday, you _ran_ four miles?"

When Sam nodded, Dean blatantly asked, "Are you stupid?"

Sam seemed to falter at those words, but then he dropped his spoon in his bowl and pushed back from the table. "What's the big deal?"

Dean was aghast. "What's the big deal?" he repeated, folding his arms across his chest. "Sam, you were sick last night! You should not have gone running without telling me. What if something happened to you?"

"Geez, relax, would you?" Sam snapped.

Dean was taken aback.

This wasn't like Sam. He never went anywhere without telling Dean first. It was kind of like an unwritten rule between the two of them.

Dean dropped his arms so that they were hanging limp by his sides. He took a steadying breath. "What the hell is going on with you, man?"

Sam exhaled loudly but didn't answer. He scooted his chair back in and turned a page in his textbook. He was trying to indicate that the discussion was over.

The trouble was, he didn't make that call. Dean did. And Dean wasn't finished just yet.

He took a seat across from his brother. "I asked you a question," he said, more firmly than he had intended. He'd been going for casual, but it wasn't in him.

Sam kept his eyes trained on his textbook. Biology, Dean realized, because he recognized the Punnett squares on the page.

Still, Sam didn't respond.

So Dean reached across the table and flipped the cover of the book closed.

Sam didn't even react. He just kept staring at the closed book, bangs shielding his eyes.

Dean licked his lips. "Sam?" He leaned forward. Tried to get the kid to look at him, meet his eyes.

Sam kept looking down, but finally, he said, "Why're you ruining this?" And it was so soft that Dean wasn't sure he was meant to hear it.

"Ruining what, Sam?" Dean asked carefully.

"My good day," Sam answered, just as quietly.

Dean frowned. "You're going to have to elaborate on that, kiddo. I'm not sure I understand."

Sam looked up at him then. "It's just… I woke up today and I felt better." He seemed to balk, and then he quickly said, "Because I was sick yesterday."

Dean nodded. "Right…" he said slowly. _Newsflash, kid: I was there._

"So I thought I'd go for a run. I didn't want to waste it. I thought you'd be proud of me."

It was true – Dean was proud of Sam for going for a run on his own volition. It had always been expected by John for the pair to get at least fifteen miles in per week, something that had become like pulling teeth with Sam as of late.

"I _am_ proud of you, Sammy," Dean assured his brother. "I'm always proud of you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah," Sam replied dully. "Believe me, I know it."

"I just wish you'd told me you were leaving the motel, that's all," Dean told him, because that was the main issue. "That's always been the way we operate around here. We're supposed to keep tabs on each other. And you've been worrying me, man, these past couple of days. Bein' sick and all."

"I'm not—" Sam started, but broke off suddenly. He sighed loudly and Dean was surprised that he didn't look like he was about to argue. He'd been expecting the classic _I'm fourteen years old. I don't need you to always look out for me_. But instead, Sam gave in. "You're right, I'm sorry," he said softly, eyes focused on the corner of the table. "Can I get back to studying now? I have a test Tuesday."

Dean stared at the kid a moment longer.

"Sure, Geek Boy," he allowed finally, nudging Sam's textbook closer to him. "Have at it."

xxx

"You're really not going to finish the book?" Sam asked as Dean flicked a paper football across the table at his brother.

They were at the library now. Sam's idea. Change in scenery.

"Sam, this book is a literary blunder. I cannot read one more word from this so-called ' _classic,'"_ Dean defended himself. "All I can say is, if you ever have to read this, do not have great expectations. Have low expectations. _Very_ low."

"It can't be that bad."

"Whatever. Are you done yet? The library's about to close, man."

Sam finished the sentence he was writing in his notebook before nodding. "Yeah. This is a good stopping point. We can go."

"Hallelujah."

They collected their things and left.

xxx

Dean lay in bed that night, listening to Sam's soft snores.

He'd been amazed at how productive that kid had been today, how much he'd eaten and exercised, even. It was like Sam hadn't been sick at all. He was as good as new.

So why was Dean still awake? Why did he still have a pit in his stomach that told him something was wrong here?

He replayed the words Sam had spoken earlier in his head – the ones that hadn't sat quite right with Dean.  
_  
Why are you ruining this?_

_My good day._

_I didn't want to waste it._

_I thought you'd be proud of me._

Dean sighed and turned over. Tried to get comfortable. He didn't know what was up with Sam, but he was near certain _something_ was. He wondered vaguely when he'd stopped being able to read the kid like an open book, because right now, Sam was like a locked diary in a locked treasure chest at the bottom of the deadliest ocean.

Dean just couldn't figure him out.

Fortunately, before Dean could drive himself mad dwelling on the enigma that was Sam, fatigue came to his rescue.

He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

"You're not dressed yet?" Dean asked, surprised to see that Sam was still sitting on the bed when he stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. He'd just finished taking a shower, and had nudged Sam awake before going into the bathroom.

Sam was bent slightly forward, head bowed against a hand shielding his face. He flinched when Dean spoke, but didn't answer him.

Dean crossed the room to his duffle bag, and pulled on a pair of boxers. He glanced over his shoulder to find that Sam was still in the same position.

"Dude, get moving. We have school."

Still, Sam made no effort to move. That's when Dean noticed the tremble in his shoulders.

That's all it took for him to know something wasn't right.

"Sam?"

Dean tossed his duffle bag aside and cautiously approached his brother. He noticed that Sam had taken off his T-shirt. It was on the floor by the foot of Sam's bed, almost like it had been thrown there.

Dean took a careful seat on the edge of the bed.

"D-Don't," Sam whispered, when the bed dipped. He was panting slightly, head hanging low.

Dean frowned. "Sammy, what's going on?" He reached his hand up to feel Sam's forehead. It was cold and clammy to the touch. Too clammy. "Are you-?" Dean broke off. He'd started to ask _are you okay?_ But that had gotten him nowhere the past couple of days. He tried again. "Tell me what's wrong."

Sam swallowed hard and shuddered. Dean realized – with overwhelming dread – that the kid was trying to hold back tears.

"Are you sick?" Dean asked, taking ahold of his brother's lean arm. "Are you hurt?"

"N-No," Sam managed to stutter, folding into himself.

Dean called bullshit. Sam was definitely hurt.

The worst kind of hurt.

"Then what's going on?"

Sam didn't answer, but reached out for his brother with his free hand – trying to grab onto a shirt that wasn't there – as sobs overtook him.

Dean took that as permission to scoot closer to his brother. "I'm right here, Sam," he said, trying to sound soothing for his brother's sake. He hated that Sam was visibly crumbling in front of him. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's skinny form, feeling hot skin press up against his own. "You didn't have a nightmare, did you?" he asked, his chin resting on the top of Sam's head while his brother trembled in his arms.

"No." Sam was muffled as he spoke into Dean's chest. "I-I can't… I don't…"

Dean pulled away then, tried to look Sam in the eyes through the kid's shaggy bangs. "You can't tell me what's wrong?"

Sam shook his head and Dean felt his heart leap into his throat. He was light-headed when he said, "I don't understand, kiddo." He tilted Sam's chin so he'd look him in the eyes, wondering why Sam wasn't able to talk to him. He could normally come to Dean with _anything._

But the eyes that gazed back at Dean looked so lost as tears continued to stream down Sam's cheeks. It occurred to Dean then that maybe Sam couldn't tell him what was going on because he didn't understand it either.

"I just f-feel bad," Sam whispered shakily. "I-I feel so _bad_."

Dean closed his eyes. Sam sounded so broken and juvenile, and Dean didn't know how to make it right. He didn't know if he could. It made him feel sick.

He licked his lips, trying to formulate the right thing to say. He knew he had to tread lightly. "Okay, Sammy," he said gently, resting his hand on Sam's knee. "We'll figure this out, you hear me? We will. But right now I want you lean back and take some deep breaths. Try to calm down, huh?"

Sam nodded jerkily, and allowed Dean to maneuver him back against the pillows.

Dean ran his hands through his hair, trying to figure out what to do first.

Water, he decided. He should probably bring the kid some water.

He made his way to the kitchenette and filled a glass of water up at the sink.

When he returned to the bed, Sam was hanging his head – his eyes squeezed shut. When he felt Dean approach him, he whispered, "M'sorry."

Dean swallowed hard. "Shut up, Sam," he said, more harshly than he'd intended due to the emotion rising in his throat. "You don't get to do that. Here, drink some water, okay?"

He made to hand Sam the glass, but the kid shook his head, tears still stained on his cheeks. "Don't want it." He breathed deeply, and then said, "I need to get ready for school." But he made no effort to move.

Which was just as well, since Dean had decided that school was out of the question the second he saw those tear tracks on Sam's face.

Dean took his position back on the edge of the kid's bed, then tucked a stray hair behind his ear. "School is the last thing on my mind right now, Sammy."

More tears spilled out of Sam's eyes. "But your test—"

"Fuck it," Dean interrupted, and he meant it. "Just come here."

Sam's breath hitched, but he obeyed, leaning forward to let himself go slack in Dean's hold once again. Sam felt flimsy in his arms – as if he didn't have the strength to hug Dean back.

It was terrifying.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. Dean just maintained the embrace – not keen on letting go anytime soon.

But then Sam spoke into his shoulder. "M-My hands," he breathed.

Dean furrowed his brow as he pulled away. "What, Sammy?"

"I can't move them," Sam said, remarkably calm about such a frightening statement.

Dean looked down, and sure enough, Sam's hands were clenched tightly into fists and he wasn't able to open his palm.

Jesus, this kid.

"Hey, it's okay," Dean said just as calmly, taking one of Sam's hands in his. "It's because you got worked up, that's all." He started to massage his brother's hand, trying to loosen the tense muscles there.

As he worked the tense muscles, he was relieved that Sam's breathing started to steady. The kid was calming down, but fatigue was beginning to sweep over him.

Dean could tell by the way he could barely keep his head up.

"Better?" Dean asked when he'd managed to get the second hand open.

"Yeah," Sam breathed. "M'tired."

"I know, man. How 'bout we go back to sleep for a few hours?" _And then we can talk this out._

"'Kay," Sam consented.

"Okay, come on, lie back down."

Sam just stared blankly at him, so Dean took the wheel again. He helped Sam turn onto his side, because he knew that's how the kid always fell asleep.

Dean remained in the bed with him. He wouldn't dream of moving now. He _needed_ to be close to Sam. He needed to be there if Sam woke up and was still in a bad way.

He started to rub circles in his brother's back, listening as his breaths began to slow as he started to give into sleep.

The moment before Sam dropped off, he whispered, "You aren't supposed to know about this," and his voice was laced with exhaustion. "You just aren't."

The words hit Dean like a sucker punch to the gut.

Those words meant that this – whatever _this_ was – had been going on for a while, and Sam had actively been trying to hide it from him.

Those words meant that Dean had failed as a big brother, because he hadn't realized the enormity of it all.

Those words meant that there was a long road ahead.


	5. Chapter 5

If Dean was asked to name three things that described his brother, he could do so without having to mull over his response.

Sam, first and foremost, was loyal – which was not to be confused with obedient. Sam was loyal to doing what he thought was right. He was loyal to doing _good._ He was steadfast and trustworthy. Always.

Second, he was annoyingly intelligent. There were times when Sam's acumen made Dean feel inferior. He was able to see things from all angles and had a way of remembering nearly everything he'd heard or read.

And third, Sam felt too much. He _cared_ too much. Often, he wore his heart on his sleeve, let his soul weigh in on his decisions and actions. Dean admired him for that.

But as he lay quietly next to his wearied brother, he realized that third attribute might just be the reason they were here – why Sam had broken down that morning.

_He feels too much._

Dean knew they needed to talk this out. He also knew that it would be a difficult discussion.

Winchesters were not talkers.

Not about the stuff that mattered.

Never had been.

With a sigh, Dean slipped out of the bed, being careful not to wake Sam. He was too restless to go back to sleep. He needed to _do_ something. Feel useful somehow.

The problem was, he was at a loss. He ended up just pacing the small confines of the motel room.

God, he wished John was here. He wasn't sure when John would call to check-in, but he prayed that it was soon. He wasn't sure how to shoulder this one on his own. But in the meantime, Dean decided, he could confide in someone else.

So that's what he did.

xxx

_"Hello?"_

Dean felt himself relax a fraction at the sound of the older man's voice. "Hey, Bobby," he breathed as he sunk lower into the armchair beside the phone.

 _"Dean?"_ Bobby sounded surprised. " _Shouldn't you be at school right now?"_

Dean licked his lips. "Uh, yeah, I guess so." He scratched the top of his head. "But uh—" his eyes landed on his brother's still form in bed and emotion stirred in his throat. "Sam ain't well, so we're not going in today."

" _He sick?"_

"I-I don't really know," Dean answered, hating how his voice trembled. "I don't know what's wrong."

Bobby was quiet for a moment. And then, _"Tell me what happened, son."_

So Dean did.

He told Bobby how Sam had admitted to being sick, but how he appeared to bounce back right away. He told him that the kid had seemed off the past couple of days – weeks even – and that Dean had written it off as a standard hormonal teenager phase. "But this morning, Bobby – he… it was like he didn't even have the strength to get out of bed. A-And he got so worked up, so tense. He was crying and he couldn't… he couldn't tell me why. And I-I just—"

 _"Dean,"_ Bobby interrupted him gently. _"Slow down, kid."_

Dean nodded jerkily. He hadn't realized how quickly he'd been talking. "Sorry," he muttered into the phone. He took in a slow, shaky breath. "I just think something is really wrong."

Bobby let out a drawn sigh. _"Has he calmed down now?"_

"Yeah," Dean answered. "Yeah, he's sleeping. Wore himself out."

_"Dean, this sounds like a panic attack to me..."_

"No, Bobby, this was something different. I know what a panic attack looks like. This was… this was different. He was restrained."

Bobby was quiet for a moment. _"Yer dad said you boys are stayin' in Little Rock?"_

"Yes, sir, at the Ritz Motel."

Dean could practically hear the old hunter thinking over the phone.

" _I can make it to you in 12 hours, give or take. Here's what's gonna happen until then. When Sam wakes up, get him to eat something. Push liquids on him. Try to get him to talk, but don't force it."_

"Bobby, you don't have to come all the way down here." Dean was suddenly embarrassed that the man was willing to put everything on hold and drive a farcical amount of time to get to them. "I'm overreacting. It's probably nothing. I'm sure he's okay."

" _Dean, I want this to be nothing as much as you do. But I also know you wouldn't have picked up that phone if your gut wasn't telling you otherwise. I'm coming. Who knows when that father of yours will be back."_

Dean swallowed hard. "Okay," he allowed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby cleared his throat gruffly. _"And Dean?"_

"Yeah?"

_"Just be there for the kid. You're the best in the world at that. I'll see you soon."_

He ended the call before Dean could say another word.

xxx

Sam stirred after what seemed like an eternity.

"Hey, you're awake," Dean said in greeting as his brother sat up, blinking blearily. Dean was aware he sounded overly casual, especially because he'd spent the past two hours just watching his brother sleep. "Have a good nap?"

"Yeah," Sam answered quietly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His shoulders were slumped forward and he let out a deep breath prior to saying, "We're really skipping school, huh?"

"Well, considering it's" – Dean glanced at the clock – "12:45, then yeah. I'd say we're really skipping school."

Sam lifted his head slightly to meet Dean's gaze. "Dad's gonna be pissed," he said hoarsely, a small shake in his voice.

Dean licked his lips. He wanted to tell Sam that Dad wouldn't be upset with them but he knew that was a long shot. John had a very low tolerance for missing school. _You better be dead or dying_ , he'd said before, on the topic of playing hooky.

As far as Dean was concerned, missing school was completely justified. He just wasn't sure his father would see it the same way.

So, instead of responding to Sam, Dean decided to switch topics. "You hungry? I made some PB&J sandwiches."

Sam shook his head, like Dean guessed he would.

"Okay," Dean said. "Then how 'bout some fresh air?"

xxx

There was a park not far from the motel, and that's where Dean took Sam.

The kid was moving slowly. Dean didn't know if it was out of exhaustion or because Sam was stalling.

It was warm for an autumn day. The leaves had already changed color and were now beginning to fall. Sam didn't seem to pay any attention. He kept his eyes trained on his feet while they walked.

He lifted his head when they approached the pond at the park's center.

"Hey, Sam, how 'bout you go sit on that bench over there," Dean suggested, directing him to an open bench parallel to the pond's edge. "I'll be there in a second."

"What are you gonna do?" Sam asked.

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock. Go sit down." He nudged Sam forward and the kid submitted.

Dean had caught sight of a trolley selling frozen lemonade. He figured people of the workforce frequented the park during their lunch break because there were quite a few food carts set up. And there were plenty of business-type folk around: people with beepers and suit get-ups and wielding thermoses disguised to be coffee, but more probably liquor.

Dean rolled his eyes at his company. He was glad that life would never be a reality for him.

"Four dollars," said the merchant at the frozen lemonade stand. As Dean handed over the money, the man asked, "How old are you, kid?"

"Nineteen," Dean answered, without missing a beat.

The man clicked his tongue, skeptical. "Uh-huh. And what about that kid you came with? Shouldn't he be in school?"

Dean gazed at Sam, who was sitting on the bench, watching a family of ducks splash in the water. "He's sick," Dean told him dismissively.

"Then he should be in bed," the man said, in a condescending way that meant he wasn't buying a single word Dean was saying.

"Not that kind of sick," Dean bit out.

The tone of voice Dean used – and probably the way he was staring the guy down – was enough for the man to back off. He handed the two lemonade cups over. "Have a nice day," he said, and smiled, like he hadn't just insulted his customer to the very core. It was always hard for Dean to keep his temper in check when a complete stranger tried to tell him what was best for Sam.

"You too, Lucy," Dean responded. With that, he grabbed the lemonades and turned on his heel, proud of getting in the last dig. The last thing he was going to do was take advice from a man with an eight-year-old girl's job: selling lemonade. _Unbelievable_.

xxx

Dean handed a frozen lemonade cup over to Sam, and the kid took it reluctantly.

"I told you I'm not hungry," he said.

"I know," Dean said simply as he took a seat beside his brother. "Eat it anyway. You love this stuff."

Sam sighed and peeled off the lid. Dean did the same.

They sat side-by-side, silently eating their frozen treats, watching a young toddler feed the ducks while her nanny watched on.

"Nice day, isn't it?" Dean said lamely.

"Yeah," Sam agreed docilely. He set his half-eaten cup of lemonade on the ground and made a face. It was clear the kid's appetite had disappeared again.

They went silent again, and it was _torture_ to Dean. He needed to break the silence somehow – he needed to say something. _Anything_.

Dean licked his lips. "I wonder how ducks tell each other apart," he commented dumbly, because that's all his brilliant mind could come up with. "I mean, the guys with the green heads –"

"Mallards," Sam supplied.

"Yeah, mallards. They look exactly the same. And so do the chicks. The brown ones. I bet they just decide to mate with the first duck they see, since they know they can't do any better."

Sam sighed. "Dean, stop," he said quietly. "You don't have to make small talk."

"What are you talking about?" Dean said, desperately trying for humor. "This is a riveting conversation."

"Dean," Sam pleaded.

Dean swallowed hard and turned his head to face his brother. The lump in his throat was making his eyes water. Maybe they shouldn't have come to such a public place.

They locked eyes, and Dean could see his helplessness reflected in Sam's gaze.

"Sammy," Dean whispered. "What's going on with you?"

Sam closed his eyes, chagrined. The next three words he spoke would haunt Dean forever.

"I don't know."


	6. Chapter 6

Dean always liked to be in control of a situation. But this, right here, right now, was beyond his control. The ball was totally and completely in Sam's court. No matter how much Dean wanted to shake the kid and demand he tell him what was going on – somehow he knew he had to give the reigns to his brother. Sam needed to be the pilot on this one.

He was vulnerable.

Exposed.

Dean replayed Bobby's words from earlier in his head: _Don't force it_.

So he sat quietly, and waited – hoped – for Sam to elaborate.

"I can't really explain it," Sam said finally, after too many seconds, contradicting what Dean desired from him. His voice was feeble and raw. "All I know is, for the past couple of months, I've just been feeling…" he trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Bad," Dean supplied with croak. That's what Sam had told him this morning. _I just feel so bad._

Sam blinked and met Dean's eyes. "Yeah."

Dean swallowed over the painful lump in his throat, and muttered to himself. "Months…" he echoed Sam's words softly, not wanting to believe. "Sammy, did you just say  _months?"_

Sam's head dipped, and that was enough confirmation for Dean.

"Jesus." Dean ran a hand over his face. "You should have told me about this."

But Sam shook his head. "I thought I could… I was managing it."

"It didn't seem like you were managing it this morning!" Dean all but yelled, inwardly grimacing as his worry presented more like anger.

Sam seemed to balk under the scrutiny of his words. He stared straight ahead and gripped the bench tightly.

Dean made a conscious effort to soften his voice. "Look, Sam, I didn't mean—"

"I know. It's okay," Sam interrupted quietly. "You're worried about me. I get it."

"Really worried," Dean conceded carefully. "Sam, this morning…" _I didn't know what to do._

"It doesn't usually get this bad," Sam hastened to say. "Normally I can stop it."

"Stop it how?" Dean pressed. And what _was_ "it" exactly?

Sam lifted a single shoulder up in a shrug. "By trying to shut everything out," he answered, voice breaking slightly. "But this morning, you were in the bathroom, and I couldn't…" he drew in a shuddering breath. "I couldn't make it go away."

 _I couldn't hide it from you_.

_I lost control._

_I just feel so bad._

Dean closed his eyes. This couldn't be happening. Not to his Sammy.

He reached an arm out and rested his hand on the kid's knee. He could feel Sam's entire body quaking, and when he reopened his eyes, he saw what he already knew.

Sam was crying silently beside him. His head was hanging in that defeated posture that always sucked the air right out of Dean.

He didn't have the heart to press the kid any more. Above that, he wasn't sure he had the heart to hear any more either.

He slung his arm around Sam's shoulders and allowed his brother to rest against his side. Once again, Sam seemed to go slack at their contact, and Dean's heart thudded in his chest.

"Still tired, huh?" Dean asked, in a voice that was much too hoarse.

"Yeah," came Sam's muffled answer.

Dean cleared his throat. "All right. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to get you something to eat and then we'll go back to the motel so you can rest up. Sound good?"

Sam nodded into his shoulder then lifted his head. He pulled away from his brother and dried his tears with his sleeve.

"Okay. C'mon."

xxx

Dean took Sam back to the diner right by their motel.

He knew that neither one of them had much of an appetite, but he was hard-set on following Bobby's advice and getting some food of substance into Sam.

Dean ordered a plate of fries and Sam surprised him by ordering some vegetable soup all on his own volition. But as they sat with their food in front of them, it occurred to Dean that Sam might have ordered the soup just so he could have something to play with as they sat in uncomfortable silence.

Dean picked at his fries, but they tasted like ash. Sam ate a grand total of six bites of soup.

Dean pushed away his plate and was about to suggest to Sam that they blow that popsicle stand, when Sam kicked him under the table. "Dean…" he breathed, his eyes wide. He was staring beyond Dean, his entire body rigid.

Adrenaline surged into Dean's veins. "You okay?" he asked, unsure of what was going on.

Sam nodded in the direction of the cashier stand. "Gun," he whispered.

Dean chewed on his bottom lip as he processed what his brother had said. Slowly and inconspiculously, he turned his head to take a peek at Sam's claim. Sure enough, a man in a hoodie was standing at the counter, holding a handgun below his waist.  
 _  
Fuck._

"Sammy, get under the table," Dean instructed. And when Sam made no effort to move, he hissed, "Now!"

The kid obeyed, and Dean repositioned the reflective water pitcher so he could see and gauge what was going on without being obvious.

The man seemed to be causally flirting with the middle-aged cashier and Dean knew he was just testing the waters. Dean could hear her pronounced giggles even over the loud (and highly distracting) disco music playing throughout the space.

Dean noticed two vital things: the first was that one of the man's shoelaces was untied. The second, there was a fire extinguisher loosely secured to the wall by the exit.

That was all Dean needed. He got up and started making his way toward the man, despite Sam's pleas calling him back. Dean waved a hand at his brother, letting him know he had this.

The diner had cleared out for the most part, since the business lunch hour was coming to a close. Dean was grateful for that. Less people to witness what was developing into quite a scene.

"I don't want any trouble," he overheard the man saying as he approached the stand. The cashier had stopped laughing, and a confused look had come over her face. "You know I don't want any of that, don't you, sweetheart?"

"What…? I-I…" the cashier stammered, confused by the man's sudden change in talk and tone.

Discreetly, Dean unhinged the fire extinguisher and snuck up behind the interaction.

"I just need you to give me the money, and I won't hurt _nobody_."

At this point, the gun had been revealed, and the cashier was practically whimpering and shaking in her shoes. She immediately began to do as she was told, and started collecting the money from the register. She briefly made eye-contact with Dean and relief flooded her eyes when she realized what his intentions were.

While Dean wanted her to have that semblance of calm, it was that relief in her eyes that gave them away. The man turned suddenly, gun aimed directly at Dean's chest.

Fortunately, Dean was ready for that. Reflexively, he stepped on the man's shoelace as he turned, causing him to stumble, enabling Dean to knock the gun out of his hands. It fell to the ground with a heavy clank.

As the man scrambled to recollect his weapon, Dean swung the fire extinguisher against his skull and the man dropped like lead.

The threat was gone, but Dean wasn't finished with the criminal just yet. Adrenaline was still coursing through his veins and with blind rage, he dropped the extinguisher and started punching the man repeatedly in the face.

Dean didn't sober until Sam's panicked voice broke through his ire. "Dean!" he was saying – begging – weakly tugging at Dean's shoulder. "He's had enough. Stop it!"

That was all it took for Dean to snap into reality and he scrambled back from the unconscious man on the floor. He was vaguely aware of his throbbing and bloody knuckles.

The remaining customers in the diner had gathered around and an older gentleman was comforting the cashier. The rest were staring at the scene and at Dean in awe.

But Dean didn't pay attention to any of that. His focus was on Sam and only Sam.

Sam, who had those damn tears dripping down his face again as he stood in front of Dean.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean croaked, shaking his most injured hand out as he stood up.

Sam nodded. "I just want to go," he whispered.

Dean could get on board with that. "You and me both, kiddo. Let's get out of here."

He ushered Sam to the exit, not planning on looking back.

"Wait!" the cashier called. "Where are you going?"

Dean sighed and turned around. "I need to get my brother home," he answered, daring her to argue with that.

"But… shouldn't you stay and give a statement to the police?" one of the customers asked, hesitantly.

"Yeah… that ain't gonna happen," Dean said. "The place has cameras, doesn't it? That ought to be enough of a statement."

With that, he nudged Sam out the door and ignored the hushed whispers that followed them.

_I can't believe how brave he was._

_He didn't even give us a chance to thank him._

_They're just kids. Fuckin' kids._

Silently, the boys walked back to the motel, numb all over.

_Numb all over._


	7. Chapter 7

Sam headed for the bathroom the second they stepped inside, but Dean caught his arm and brought him to a halt.

"Sammy, look at me," Dean said softly.

Watery, hazel eyes reluctantly gazed up at him through shaggy bands.

"You okay?"

"I-I need to…" Sam eyed the bathroom anxiously, avoiding the question. "Dean, please just let me go. I don't feel good."

Dean swallowed hard. "You don't?" he asked, studying his brother's admittedly pale face.

"I just need…" he panted slightly, struggling to explain. "I need…"

But Dean heard him loud and clear.

_I need to shut it out._

He breathed deeply. "Okay," he allowed gently, releasing his grip on his brother's arm. "Okay. Just… don't lock the door, you hear me?"

Sam nodded and retreated into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

It made Dean incredibly apprehensive for his brother to be out of his sight, but he tried to see the situation from Sam's angle. The kid was vulnerable. Humiliated. And Dean knew how important privacy could be when they were always confined to close quarters.

So he busied himself by cleaning up his bloody hands at the sink of the kitchenette. Fortunately, his knuckles weren't busted enough to require stitches. Dean just taped them up, working carefully because his hands were shaking slightly. His rush of adrenaline had come crashing down and left him edgy, but also exhausted.

When he was through, he realized that fifteen minutes had passed and Sam hadn't emerged from the bathroom.

That was enough privacy for now, as far as he was concerned.

He crossed the room to knock on the door. There was no light seeping through the cracks, and Dean's heart sank at the thought of kid just sitting in the dark. "Sam?"

Dean wasn't surprised when there was no answer. It's what he'd expected. He took his brother's silence as an invitation to go in and nudged the door open.

Even though it was dark, Dean could still see the silhouette of his brother's body. Sam was on the floor, pressed against the bathtub. He had an elbow propped up against the edge of the tub. He was holding his head with his hands and his legs were pulled into his chest.

The sight literally knocked the air out of Dean. It was like he'd been punched right in the gut.

"Aw, Sammy…"

Dean slunk down to the floor so he was sitting beside his brother, their thighs lightly touching.

Sam shied away from him. "I-I need more time," he whispered.

 _Don't you dare try to push me away_ , Dean wanted to say, because that was the kid's M.O. Instead, he said, "I think you've been sitting alone in the dark for long enough, Sam."

The frame of Sam's body shuddered as he drew in a deep breath and Dean knew he'd taken his words the wrong way.

Dean sighed. "I just mean… if you need to do this, then just… let me be here with you." He placed a gentle had on the back of Sam's clammy neck. "Okay?"

Sam shook his head, swallowing audibly. Sobs were wracking in his chest. He was getting too worked up again.

And Dean felt like crying along with him.

Wanting Sam to settle down, Dean started rubbing his shoulders and back, but it seemed to make the kid tense up even more. "Sam, c'mon, you need to relax, man," Dean tried.

He hated that his presence was what seemed to be the issue.

"Dean…" Sam breathed through his tears. He reached an arm out, as if pushing Dean away.

Dean took ahold of his arm. "Sam, I'm not going to leave when you're this upset," he said firmly. "Not a chance."

"No," Sam mumbled tiredly, like Dean didn't understand. He lifted his arm again, reaching for something, but it was dark and Dean couldn't tell what. An involuntary moan escaped from the back of Sam's throat.

In a split-second, Dean realized what was happening, just as Sam repeated from earlier, "I don't feel good."

It occurred to Dean then that Sam had been trying to reach out to the commode.

"You feel like you're gonna hurl?" Dean asked unsurely.

"I don't know," Sam slurred, his voice dangerously close to a whine. "M'hot. It's so hot in here, Dean—"

Sam choked on a gag, and Dean immediately tugged his brother to the toilet, cursing under his breath. Dean held onto his brother's shoulder as the kid coughed and gagged relentlessly over the bowl, with no results.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean soothed. "Take control, brother. Just breathe."

Sam took Dean's words to heart and managed to settle down. He was left panting and exhausted as he rested his cheek on the toilet seat.

Dean patted his back gently. "That's it. Good, Sam." He was relieved that Sam hadn't vomited; the kid was probably dehydrated enough as it was. His shirt was damp with sweat.

"I'm hot," Sam said again, his tired voice echoing around the small bathroom.

"I can tell," Dean commented. "Your shirt is soaked through. C'mon, let's get that off."

He took ahold of Sam's arm and pulled him into an upright position. Then he peeled the shirt off over his head and tossed it in the corner.

"Better?" Dean asked, letting Sam rest his forehead against his shoulder.

Sam nodded vaguely. Dean could feel the wetness on his cheeks.

"Want to lie down for a while?"

Another nod.

"Okay. Come on, then." Dean helped his brother up and walked him into the main room. Sam's movements seemed uncoordinated and flimsy. "You dizzy, Sammy?" he asked, as Sam took a seat on the bed.

"A little," Sam sighed. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Dean bit down on his lip, not sure how to address his brother's admission. Instead, he went to Sam's duffle and got him a fresh T-shirt. Sam was shivering now, the sweat on his back chilling him now that his skin exposed to the air. "Here," Dean offered, allowing Sam to pull on the shirt for himself. When he had, Dean said, "Lean back, now. Come on."

All business.

He fluffed the pillows at the head of the bed, and carefully pushed his brother into them. Then he returned to the bathroom to grab a damp cloth to cool down Sam's flushed face. The glass of water that Sam had refused that morning still sat on the nightstand.

To Dean's relief, he wasn't opposed to it now. Sam drained the glass quickly, while Dean pressed the cool cloth to his brow.

"Is your hand okay?" Sam asked drowsily, eyeing the bandages that covered Dean's knuckles.

"Never better," Dean dismissed, running the cloth down to Sam's neck.

Sam put a hand on top of Dean's, which brought Dean's efforts to a halt. "Are _you_ okay?" Sam asked, looking his brother right in the eyes.

Classic Sam Winchester move.

"I cannot even believe you're asking me that question," Dean returned hoarsely, and crap, he was going cry. But he couldn't do that. He couldn't let Sam see how much this was hurting him – because it sure as hell wasn't Sam's fault. Dean sniffed loudly and tried to smile through overflowing tears. "I'm okay. You just worry about you, Sammy."

He rested a hand on Sam's chest and started rubbing back and forth, trying to lull his brother to sleep. He used to do the same thing when Sam was younger and would wake up from constant nightmares.

He would wake up screaming bloody murder, and it would take ages to get him to calm down again.

That was shortly after Sam learned of the supernatural.

Scared Dean half to death.

But this? Right now? This scared him more than anything. More than monsters and ghosts and spirits and ghouls.

"Just close your eyes and get some rest, runt," Dean soothed, using a playful pet name that was more for his own benefit than Sam's. He nudged the kid over so he could join him on the bed. "I'll be right here."

_I'm not going to leave you._

_Not ever._


	8. Chapter 8

The phone was ringing.

Dean considered not answering it.

He knew it was John, calling to check in. And what the hell was he going to say? He was supposed to have everything under control. He was supposed to be able to hold down the fort.

But he picked the phone up anyway, mainly because he didn't want the constant ringing to wake his brother.

He reached an arm out to the pick up the receiver on the bedside table. "'Lo?" he said, his voice hoarse.

" _Dean?"_ John said.

Dean cleared his throat, tried to swallow the lump pulsating there. "Yeah. Hi, Dad." He kept his voice soft in an effort to not wake Sam. He carefully slid out of his brother's bed and took a seat on the adjacent one, keeping the phone pressed against his ear.

" _Why're you whispering?"_

"Because Sammy's asleep," Dean answered.

" _What's he doin' sleeping at five o'clock in the afternoon? He won't be able to sleep tonight!"_

"He's not feeling well, Dad. We stayed home from school today."

_"What's the matter with him?"_

Dean sighed. It was going to be difficult to articulate what was going on with Sam when Dean didn't fully understand it himself.

" _Dean?"_

"I don't really know what's going on with him. But I don't think he's okay."

 _"What does that mean? Is he running a fever?"_ John hedged. _"Nausea, vomiting, what?"_

"Yeah… I mean, there's some of that, but I don't think that's the problem here."

_"Dean, what in the world are you talkin' about, kiddo?"_

Dean let out a shaky breath. "There's something going on with him. He was really worked up this morning, but he can't really tell me what's wrong. I don't think he even knows. He scared the hell out of me, Dad. And now, he's just… really worn out."

John was quiet for a minute. _"So what are you telling me here, Dean? Are trying to tell me that Sammy's depressed or something?"_

Dean flinched at that word. Depressed. He'd tried not to think it – because then it would seem real, but… "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I think it's a possibility."

John was quick to object. " _Dean, think about this, son. The kid is thirteen years old. He probably doesn't even know what depression is."_

"He's fourteen, Dad. And you weren't here. You didn't see him."

John blew out a huff of air. _"You sure he wasn't just trying to get out of school? You used play sick all the time when you were his age."_

"I'm sure," Dean said firmly. "Dad, this is Sammy we're talking about. C'mon, you can't tell me you haven't noticed something's been up with him these past few weeks."

John was quiet for moment before he sighed. " _You're right,"_ he breathed, and then repeated, _"You're right. But I don't want you jumping to conclusions, Dean."_

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know, Dad," he said. "That's why I think you should get back here—"

" _Dean, I can't_ ," John interrupted, much too quickly.

"What do you mean you can't?"

_"This town is crawling with big bads. I've got a job here."_

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Yeah?" he challenged. "And what about your job here?"

There was stunned silence on the other end of the line, and Dean winced. Talking back to his father left a bad taste in his mouth, no matter how justified. When John spoke again, his voice was soft and tame, a low growl that intimidated Dean more than if he'd been shouting. _"I will try to be back in a week. Until then, I can give Bobby a call, have him—"_

"Don't bother calling Bobby," Dean said in a voice so steady and low that it rivaled his father's. "He's already on his way."

Seething, and not caring what else John had to say, he slammed the phone back into the base, an action he regretted when Sam stirred in the bed beside him.

_Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't wake-_

"Dean?" Sam reached a hand out to flip on the lamp on the bedside table. He turned on his side to face his brother. "Were you talking to somebody?"

Dean ran a tired hand over his face. "Yeah. Dad called."

Sam's face clouded. "Oh." He licked his lips and looked fearfully into Dean's eyes. "He's not coming back, is he?"

Dean frowned at him. "No, he's not."

"Good."

"Why is that a good thing?" Dean wondered. _Don't you get that I'm at a loss here?_

Sam looked past Dean, eyes unfocused and uncaring. "If people are dying, he shouldn't come back just because—"

"Just because _what_ , Sam? Just because you barely have enough energy to get out of bed? Just because you're an emotional wreck every time you're awake? Just because you haven't eaten a proper meal in _days_?" Dean's voice was rising with each word he spoke, but he couldn't help it. "Because to me, those sound like pretty valid reasons for Dad to hightail his ass back here, Sam!"

Sam had closed his eyes during Dean's rant and had folded into himself. He looked and sounded so small when he said, "You're mad at me."

Dean felt like shaking him. He wanted to punch a wall. Throw things. But the last thing he wanted to do was scare the kid, so he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, leaned forward so his arms were resting on his knees. "No, Sam. It's not you I'm mad at."

Sam reopened his eyes. "But you _are_ mad."

 _Worried_ , Dean wanted to correct, but he didn't. Instead, he ignored the comment and reached out to put a hand on Sam's forehead. Still cool, thank God. Dean pushed Sam's bangs out of his eyes and asked, point-blank, "How're you feeling?"

Sam lifted a shoulder in a shrug and his eyes started to water.

"Okay, dumb question," Dean admitted, cringing at his brother's vacant expression. "Let's try this one: do you feel like you can stomach some grub?"

Sam shook his head.

"Okay," Dean said, even though it wasn't. "Do you want to go back to sleep?"

Sam shook his head again, and Dean could just read it on his face: _I don't want to do anything._

But Dean didn't accept that.

He jumped up, and went to retrieve something from his duffle. "Then what do you say we play a game of cards?" he suggested, giving the deck a shake.

"Dean, I really don't—"

"Sam, you won't even have get out of bed, okay? We can just play right here. Please, do this for me?"

_Otherwise I might lose my mind completely._

Sam sighed. "Okay," he relented, sitting up. "One game."

Dean flashed him a smile that was fake and felt wrong on his lips. "Great!" He flopped down on the bed, across from Sam. "What'll it be?"

"You can pick," Sam answered. He was slumped forward, his chin resting on the knee pulled into his chest.

Dean picked _War_. Mindless, but enough to keep Sam engaged.

He prayed Bobby would get there soon.


	9. Chapter 9

It was ten o'clock, and Dean and Sam were sitting side-by-side in near darkness. The only source of light was a tea candle on the nightstand.

A storm had rolled in and knocked the power out while they were watching reruns of _The Three Stooges_.

Rain was pounding against the windows, wind was howling loudly, and thunder was shaking the entire room.

"This storm rolled in fast," Dean said, just for something to say.

"Yeah."

"How're you doin'?"

"I'm fine, Dean."

Dean snorted softly. "Yeah, sure you are. Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Your hand, Sam."

He'd seen Sam rubbing clenched fists against his thighs before the lights went out, and Dean knew his hands were cramping up again. "How did you know?" Sam asked softly, allowing Dean to take one of his hands to loosen up the tense muscles there. Sam leaned his cheek against Dean's shoulder.

"It's my job to know," Dean answered. "And it'd make my job a lot easier if you would stop trying to hide when you're feeling bad."

"I don't feel bad right now," Sam insisted. "My hands are just stiff."

"You sure, Sammy?"

"Yeah."

Dean believed him. He continued to massage Sam's palm, gently opening his fingers. "This probably happened because you're dehydrated," he said after a while, thinking out loud.

"Yeah, maybe," Sam agreed.

"I'll grab you a bottle of water once I'm done with this. Give me your other hand."

xxx

Dean didn't mean to, but he fell asleep. It was the buzz from the electricity coming back that startled him awake.

Sam was no longer in the bed. He was sitting at the table of the kitchenette, holding a flashlight and pouring over a textbook.

Dean rubbed at his eyes as Sam flipped the flashlight off – it was no longer needed now that they had their power back.

"What're you doin'?" Dean asked with a yawn. He crossed the room to have a seat at the table across from his brother.

Sam looked up at him. "I remembered I have that biology test tomorrow," he answered dully.

Dean raised his eyebrows and held Sam's gaze. "You want to go to school tomorrow?" he asked incredulously.

"We can't miss two days in a row, Dean," Sam returned. "We shouldn't have missed today. There was no reason to. It was stupid."

Dean swallowed hard. "It wasn't stupid, Sam," he said quietly. "You were a—" he'd started to say "a mess," but caught himself. That sounded insensitive, and that was the last thing Sam needed. He tried again. "You needed a day off."

When Sam didn't say anything, Dean continued. "Look, I know you want to shake off whatever it is that's going on with you, but I don't think it's that easy. This isn't nothing. We need to be smart about this."

Sam was looking down at the corner of the table now, avoiding Dean's eyes. He remained quiet.

"You hearin' me?" Dean prompted. "Sam?"

Sam let out a shuddering sigh. "I can't get behind in school."

Dean licked his lips. "Okay," he relented, because he had to acknowledge that school was important to the kid. "We'll play it by ear – see how you are tomorrow morning, and make a game day decision then."

Sam bit down on his lip. "Okay," he said softly, just as there was a knock on the door. Sam seemed to flinch – almost panicked. "Who's that?" he asked.

Dean snorted softly at his reaction and stood up. "Relax, runt, it's probably just Bobby."

"Why is he here?"

That's when Dean realized that he'd never mentioned to the kid that Bobby was coming. And from the look of – was that betrayal? – on Sam's face, Dean could tell that was a royal mistake.

"I called him," Dean admitted, trying for casual. "He wanted to come."

It was clearly obvious to Sam why Dean had called Bobby and why he had driven 12+ hours, in the pouring rain, no less. Sam's face had crumpled by this point, and his voice absolutely shattered Dean's entire being when he whispered, "How could you?"

"Sam…"

But Sam shook his head, not willing to allow Dean to explain. For how slowly he'd been moving all day, he certainly wasted no time in heading straight for the bathroom.

Dean cringed as the door closed and he heard the resounding _click_ of the lock being turned into place.

He remained still for a moment, numb, until Bobby knocked again. "Dean?" His voice was muffled through the oak of the door.

It occurred to Dean then that while the thunder and lighting had cleared out of the area, the rain still remained. He hastened across the room to swing open the door.

"About time, ya idjit," Bobby said in greeting, pushing past Dean to inside.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean sighed, relieved at just the sight of the older man.

Bobby set his duffle on the bed closest to the door before turning and catching Dean in a bear hug. He squeezed tight. "Good to see you, boy. It's been too long."

"You're gettin' me all wet," Dean grumbled into his shoulder. Bobby's jacket was damp from the rain.

Bobby gave him one last squeeze then pulled away with a smirk on his face. "Yeah, well, serves you right." He winked at Dean and scanned the room. "Where's your brother?"

Dean heard the shower turn on and nodded towards the bathroom. "Takin' a shower, I guess." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's – uh – I forgot to tell him you were coming. He… he's not…"

Dean hated how uneven his voice sounded. He couldn't stand it when Sam was mad at him.

Bobby understood. "My unannounced appearance caught him off guard, huh?" He peeled off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door.

"Yeah," Dean croaked.

Bobby squinted, in the way he always did when was trying to read Dean's face. Dean hated that. "How was he today?" he asked carefully, his voice much too calm for how Dean was feeling.

Dean could barely speak over the lump that had materialized in his throat. The fact that Sam was out of earshot and Bobby was willing to take on half of this burden was enough for Dean to let down his defenses some. He felt like he could start bawling right there on the spot, but that's not what Winchesters did.

So he shook his head vaguely and tried to clear his throat. "I don't think he's okay, Bobby," he said as steadily as he could manage. "And I don't know what to do."

Bobby must have sensed how close Dean was to shattering because he took a step forward and placed his hands on Dean's elbows, almost like he was trying to keep him together. "That's why I'm here," he said, making determined eye contact. "We'll figure this out together. Yeah?

Dean swallowed hard. "Yeah."

"Good," Bobby stated, dropping his arms. "Let's go sit down. I could use a beer after that drive. I swear that damn storm followed me all the way from South Dakota."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Just a quick heads-up: I recently re-read another story of mine called 'A Merry Heart Does Good Like Medicine' (formerly 'Mister Fantasy') - and I have decided to add some more chapters to it because I realized I'm not completely satisfied with the ending. There are some loose ends I noticed that I would like to tie up!
> 
> Anyway, that story takes place around Christmas so, ideally, I would like to get those chapters up before/around then. That being said, the updates for THIS story, will likely be a little more spread out now, since I'll be chipping away at two stories at once (+ grad school).
> 
> Thanks for understanding, and thanks so much for reading. Y'all rock.


	10. Chapter 10

"Sam?" Dean knocked on the door. "You almost finished in there, man?"

The water had been turned off for almost 10 minutes now, and Sam hadn't emerged. All Dean could hear through the door was the whir of the bathroom fan.

Honestly, Dean didn't care how long Sam stayed in there. He just wanted some kind of answer, just to let him know the kid was all right.

But Sam didn't answer.

Dean closed his eyes and knocked again. "Sam, c'mon," he tried. The last thing he wanted from his brother was the Silent Treatment.

Bobby stood up and joined Dean in his efforts. "Sam?" he called. "It's Bobby. Hurry up in there so I can see how much you've grown in the past four months."

Dean snorted softly. Sam had been growing like a weed lately. He'd catch up to Dean before he knew it.

"Sam?"

Still no answer.

Dean licked his lips. It wasn't like Sam to ignore Bobby. He was too well-mannered for that.

"We need to pick the lock," he said determinedly, instincts taking over.

"He's probably fine—" Bobby started to say, but Dean cut him off.

"I'm not taking any chances. You got your pick on you?"

"Yeah," Bobby answered, reaching into his back pocket. "Move over."

Dean obeyed and allowed Bobby to get the door open, because he knew the older hunter was faster at it. He was able to pick the lock in six seconds flat.

"Sam, we're comin' in," Dean announced before nudging the door open.

Dean wasn't sure what he was expecting when he opened that door, but what he saw – the state of his little brother – caused his heart to skip a beat and he had to grab onto the doorframe to keep from toppling over.

A nude Sam was sitting on the floor of the bathtub, legs pulled up to his chest. His breathing was shallow, and the hot steam that filled the room from his shower was encompassing. He was biting down – hard – on his right wrist, so hard that he had drawn blood. But that wasn't the worst of it.

Sam's back and shoulders were burned raw – bright red and glistening with a thin layer of exposed flesh.

"Oh my god," Dean breathed. He practically stumbled over his own feet trying to get to his brother as fast as possible. His knees thudded hard against the tile floor as he crashed down in front of the tub. "Sammy, what happened?" he demanded, reaching to grab Sam's wrist from his mouth. "Jesus, what did you do?"

Sam was trembling hard as he allowed Dean to take away his hand. Quickly, Dean realized that Sam had been biting on his wrist to keep from crying out, and once his wrist was taken away, he became hysterical.

"I-I didn't mean to," Sam cried, avoiding eye contact. "Dean, I-I didn't…"

He was breathing rapidly, unable to contain the sobs in his chest, and Dean didn't know what the fuck to do.

"Don't be mad," Sam slurred through hitched breath. "I-I'm okay. I am. I-I don't know what… please don't be mad."

"I'm not mad Sam," Dean said shakily, holding onto Sam's uninjured wrist. He was feeling a lot of things, but _mad_ certainly wasn't one of them. He rubbed his brother's wrist in what he prayed was a soothing gesture, desperate to get Sam to calm down even a fraction. "We just need to get you sorted out." Dean glanced over his shoulder. "B-Bobby?"

The older hunter was still frozen at the doorway, his face a mixture of horror and consternation. But the sound of his name made him snap out of it.

He cleared his throat gruffly and crossed the room to dump out the trash in the plastic receptacle by the sink. "We need to get him cooled down," he said, all business, and Dean envied his ability to keep his voice steady. "I'm afraid the spray from the shower head would be too painful."

Dean nodded his agreement.

"It hurts, Dean," Sam was whimpering, over and over. "It hurts."

"I know, kiddo. You're okay." Dean assured him. He made a decision right then and there to climb into the bathtub with his brother. He needed to move Sam away from the tub's spout so Bobby could fill the bin with cold water. But above that, he could tell that Sam needed him to be as close as possible.

He settled into the far end of the bathtub and pulled Sam closer to him, being careful not to touch any of his brother's raw skin. Sam went slack against him, softly crying into the crevice of his neck.

"Keep him still," Bobby instructed, once the bin was filled. "I'm going to pour this – slowly – over his back."

"Okay," Dean croaked. "You hear that, Sammy?"

He felt Sam nod against his shoulder.

"Okay, do it," Dean allowed.

Sam tensed as the water connected with his burned back. He moaned lowly and started to struggle, but Dean had a good hold on him. "S-Stop," Sam whimpered.

And Dean felt so fucking terrible when he said, "We have to, Sammy. We need to cool you down." He licked his lips and met Bobby's eyes. "Keep going."

Sam kept protesting, and every _stop_ and _don't_ and _no_ made Dean feel like the worst brother in the entire world. But they had to do this.

They had all dealt with burns before, and they knew this was what they had to do.

 _Rinse with water until the pain stops_.

Four minutes into this, Sam vomited. He hiccupped on a sob, and Dean felt bile run down his neck and back.

Sam was apologetic, despite the amount of pain he was in. "Sorry," he slurred. "Dean, m'so sorry."

But Dean didn't care. He didn't care that he was soaked in cold water or that he was covered in emesis. He wasn't even grossed out. "Shhh," he hushed. "It's okay, Sammy. Just a few more minutes of this and you'll start to feel better. I promise, kid, okay?"

Sam nodded again.

"He's overheated," Bobby acknowledged. "Dean, we might have to take him in."

"I know," Dean said softly, blinking back tears. "But let's finish this first. Five more minutes. He's not struggling as much anymore. That means it's working."

For the remaining five minutes – the longest five minutes of Dean's life – Bobby worked quietly, allowing Dean to console his brother.

At the end of those five minutes, Sam had either calmed down or he was so spent that he had the façade of calm. He pulled away from Dean. "I want to get out," he whispered, and his cheeks were still stained with tears. "Please."

"Sure, Sam," Bobby said, setting the bin aside.

"Does your back feel better?" Dean asked. "Give me a number."

Sam swallowed hard. "Three."

Dean ran his hands through his hair. "Okay." They could work with that. "Bobby, can you go grab him some boxers?"

Bobby nodded and retreated quickly, but tossed a dry towel in their direction before exiting the bathroom.

"Can you stand?" Dean asked.

"I think so."

So Dean stood up first and then pulled Sam up with him. Then he quickly wrapped the towel around Sam's waist, trying to save his brother his last strand of dignity.

"Okay, c'mon, step out."

Sam was so wobbly that he wasn't able to make it into the main room without leaning the majority of his weight on Dean.

Bobby, seeing this, rushed over to help get the kid to the bed to sit down. Sam leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"That's it," Bobby said, resolutely. "Dean, I really think we ought take him in." He tossed Dean the boxers he'd grabbed for Sam.

Dean caught them. "Bobby, we can't," he said softly. "I mean, what the hell would we tell them?"

Bobby sighed. "We'd tell them the truth, Dean."

"What? That he did this to himself?" Dean asked incredulously. "Bobby, they'll have him committed!"

Bobby furrowed his brow in sympathy. "Maybe that's what he needs, Dean."

Dean didn't dignify Bobby's statement with a response. He swallowed against the emotion in his throat and knelt down in front of his brother. "Here, buddy, let's put these on." His heart sank when Sam blinked at him dazedly.

He was fighting to stay conscious.

"Sam, c'mon, now," Dean said firmly, shaking the boxer shorts in front of him. "Put these on." He was frustrated and scared and maybe even a little panicked, and it showed.

Bobby pulled Dean away from his brother. "How 'bout I help him with that," he said gently, taking the shorts back from Dean. "You need to go change, too."

When Dean made no effort to move, Bobby said, "You called me to help, son. Now let me help." He nudged Dean in the direction of his duffle, and Dean submitted.

Dean went into the bathroom and peeled off his wet clothes. He quickly pulled on some fresh sweats, well aware that his entire body was shaking. It made the process take longer than he would have liked.

By the time he returned to the main room, Bobby had gotten Sam into boxers and sweatpants. The kid was lying facedown on the bed, bare back exposed and trembling all over.

"He feels light-headed," Bobby informed Dean with his arms crossed and his no-nonsense voice. "Look, I know you Winchesters avoid hospitals like the plague, but—"

"But we need to take him in," Dean gave in with a sigh. He'd known it the second they'd stepped into that bathroom – he just hadn't wanted to admit it. "Okay. Let's go."

Bobby tossed Dean his keys. "Pull up the car. I'm going to tape up his wrist before we go."

xxx

Sam slept, leaned up heavily against Dean the entire car ride to the emergency room. Dean was tense and frantic and just sick with the thought of what had happened. He could barely wrap his mind around it.

 _I didn't mean to_ , Sam had said.

Dean tried to hold onto that, but the truth of the matter was, even if his burns had been unintentional, it was still just as scary. Sam had done this to _himself_.

Something was wrong.

So _very_ wrong.

And Dean didn't know how to face it.

xxx

END OF PART I


	11. Chapter 11

PART II

Sam lay face down on the hospital bed. Dean was sitting in the chair beside him, rubbing a soothing thumb across the back of his hand while he and Bobby spoke with the doctor.

The first course of action when Sam had made it through triage and taken back for examining was to hook him up to an IV. Sam hadn't realized how downright miserable he'd been feeling until he started feeling just a fraction better.

IVs were truly a gift from God.

But the IV didn't change how downright humiliated Sam was. It didn't change the fact that Dean had called Bobby because Sam was too much of a mess for him to handle. It didn't change the fact that Bobby had driven 12 hours, just to be greeted with Sam fucking hysterical and  _naked_  on the bathtub floor.

_What a loser._

Sam closed his eyes and tried to shut everything out. Pretending to be asleep seemed like the best option. Being awake would mean he'd have to face this.

Right now, Bobby and Dean were explaining to the doctor what had happened that caused Sam to wind up in the emergency room. They were all speaking with serious, gentle voices.

Sam hated that.

He hated everything about this.

He flinched as a nurse placed a cool, damp cloth on his back. It stung, and Sam felt like he could start bawling.

How did he wind up here? He thought he had this under control. Before today, he'd been able to go through the motions. He was getting by.

Today, it was like he didn't even know how to function.

If he was being honest, he was scared. He understood why they'd brought him here, but he was apprehensive about what was coming next.

How did he let this happen?

 _What's wrong with me?_  
  
Sam had yet to take a look at the doctor Bobby and Dean were speaking with. He'd entered the exam room after Sam had buried his face in the pillow, and Sam sure wasn't planning on looking up anytime soon.

"Well, based on the information you've given me, I believe that Sam is currently in a state of emotional crisis," the doctor said. "Right now, my gut feeling is that he should be admitted to acute inpatient care at Methodist Behavioral Hospital." __  
  
Sam's stomach lurched at the thought. Dean was right. They were having him committed.

He decided it was a good time to stow the act and pushed himself up with wobbly arms. "Dean?" he asked unsurely.

His brother's face was pale white and he looked nervous as hell.

Dean pressed a light hand against Sam's back to keep the cloth in place, while Sam transitioned to a seated position. "Hey, kiddo," Dean said softly, his voice astonishingly steady. He tucked a stray hair behind Sam's ear. "You're awake. We're just listening to what the doctor has to say. Are you okay?"

"Yeah…" Sam croaked.

He glanced at Bobby.

"Hey, Sam," Bobby greeted gently. He was sitting in a chair by the doorway, and the doctor was sitting on one of those small stools that rolled and swiveled.

As it turns out, the doctor was nothing like Sam had pictured. He was young – probably in his early 30s, and he had fine, red hair parted to the side. He was tall and thin and he wore mahogany, wide-rimmed glasses that took up practically half of his face.

"If you'll excuse me," the doctor said to Bobby, "I'd like to take a minute and introduce myself to my patient, here." He crossed the room and knelt down in front of Sam with a grin. He held his hand out for a shake. "Hi, Sam," he said genuinely. "I'm Dr. Alec Bates, but you can call me Al."

Sam was almost expecting Dean to make a Paul Simon joke, but when he didn't, Sam took the doctor's hand and gave it a shake. "Hi, Al," he returned quietly, not daring to meet the man's eyes.

"I've just been talking with your uncle and brother here about what the next best course of action will be."

"Methodist Behavioral Hospital," Sam said acknowledged softly, hanging his head. "What is that place?"

Al continued to stay kneeling, but turned slightly so he could address Dean and Bobby as well. "It's a mental health facility about eight miles east of here that provides crisis stabilization for children and adolescents who we feel are in need of highly coordinated care."

"And you think that Sam falls into that category?" Bobby asked seriously.

"Based on what you've told me, yes," Al answered. He put a hand on Sam's knee. "My main concern is that Sam has self-harmed. Has Dr. Rupp been in yet?"

"I just paged her," the nurse answered. Sam didn't realize she was still in the room. But to be fair, he felt a little out of it. None of this seemed real.

"Sam, Dr. Rupp is the burn specialist on the unit. She will be in soon to take a look at your back and see if you're cooled down enough to dress," Al said. He patted Sam's knee and then stood up. To Bobby, he said, "She will examine his burn site and let you know what degree it is." He raised his eyebrows at Sam. "That sound like a plan?"

Sam nodded mutely.

"Good. After she comes in, you'll be transferred down to the burn unit and we'll stop bugging you for the night." He winked at Sam. "I'll put in a referral for Dr. Hank Warner to see you in the morning. He's our psychiatrist. He will give you a definitive answer on whether or not Sam needs the coordinated care from MBH."

"Okay. Thank you, Doctor," Bobby said.

Al excused himself and disappeared out of the room.

The nurse took that as her opportunity to introduce herself.

Sam was getting tired of introductions already, and he had a feeling this was just the start of it.

"Hi, Sam. My name is Helen. How are you feeling?"

Sam licked his lips and glanced at Dean. "I'm okay," he said softly.

"You sure, Sammy?" Dean asked. "How's your back?"

Sam closed his eyes. "It's not so bad." It felt numb, just like the rest of him.

"You've got him on some painkillers, don't you?" Bobby asked the nurse.

"Yes, sir. Sam had a small dose of methadone administered to him orally upon arrival."

Sam didn't remember that. Everything over the course of the past three hours felt like a blur.

The nurse continued. "It will prepare him for his dressing, and will dull the pain during that process." She smiled brightly at Sam. "Is there anything I can get for you right now? Some water maybe?"

Sam shook his head. He was feeling overwhelmed, and he wasn't convinced he'd be able to stomach anything. "I'm okay."

The nurse nodded as though she understood. "Okay. Dr. Rupp should be with you all in a moment. Don't hesitate to page me if you need anything."

"Thanks, Helen," Bobby said as she exited the room.

The nurse closed the door behind her, leaving Sam alone with Dean and Bobby.

And Sam had never felt more exposed in his life. He closed his eyes. He was afraid they'd start talking about him. And he didn't want to hear what they had to say.

He wanted the ground to swallow him up whole.

Dean reached out to put a hand on Sam's knee – the only place anybody felt safe to touch apparently, since his shoulders and back were burned raw.

"Sam, look at me."

Sam shook his head. He didn't want to see the concern and fear in his brother's eyes.

_"Sam."_

Reluctantly, Sam lifted his head.

"Everything's going to be okay," Dean said, his voice unwavering. "You hear me?'

Sam swallowed hard. "Yeah," he breathed.

"Good. C'mon, how 'bout you lie back down?"

Sam allowed his brother to maneuver him back into a prone position.

Soon after, Sam felt a dip in the bed and he realized that Dean had joined him.

Then he felt Dean's strong, calloused hands start running through his hair.

That's how they waited.

And nobody said a word.


	12. Chapter 12

"Have a seat anywhere you'd like, Sam."

Sam examined his options. There was a small, purple beanbag chair, a normal-looking armchair, and one of those big, red physio balls.

Dr. Hank Warner had brought Sam to this bizarre room the following morning. Last night, Sam's back had been dressed in bandages. His shoulders felt heavy now, and hot, and itchy. He wished he could hop out of his skin and escape this "chat" with the doctor.

He'd much rather be in bed.

Dean hadn't been allowed to come with Sam for this, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Bobby had to convince him that it was okay for Sam to talk to the doctor alone.

Sam wasn't so sure.

What was this man going to ask him? How much could he really tell him about their lives?

He knew telling him about hunting was out of the question. The big family rule number one: they do what they do and they shut up about it.

Swallowing hard, Sam opted for the armchair.

There was a bookshelf in the far corner of the room. Dr. Warner retrieved a bin from the bottom shelf and handed it to Sam.

"These are called 'fidgets,'" he explained. "You can play around with some of them while we talk, if you want."

"Okay."

Sam glanced into the bin. There were snap-beads, collapsible tubing, marble puzzles, and stress balls. But Sam's hands were numb again – he was nervous – and he decided to set the bin on the floor instead of playing around with the items inside.

"Can I get you a water, Sam, before we begin?"

Sam shook his head. "No thanks," he answered quietly.

"Okay." Dr. Warner took a seat on the red physio ball and smiled brightly at his client. "Well, first off, Sam, my name is Dr. Hank Warner, but I tell my patients to call me Hank. How about we start off by having you tell me a little about yourself, Sam."

Sam wasn't exactly sure what to say. "Okay…" he started softly. "Um, I'm a freshman in high school, I have a brother, Dean, and my dad travels for work – he's in pharmaceuticals – so we move around a lot."

Hank nodded and scribbled something on his notepad. "How old is your brother?" he asked.

"Eighteen."

"Senior in high school?"

"Yeah."

"He planning on going to college?"

Sam felt a pang of sadness in his chest at that question, and he couldn't exactly pinpoint why. He shook his head no. "Not really his style," he croaked, and looked down at his hands.

"Well, college isn't for everyone, and that's okay," Hank said understandingly. "Do you and Dean get along?"

"Yeah, we do. Really well."

Hank flashed him a gentle smile. "That's good, Sam. Brothers are a blessing, aren't they?"

Sam nodded dismissively, wondering vaguely what Dean would say if he was in here to hear Hank spew off these rehearsed, tawdry remarks to Sam's responses.

"So, I know a little bit about your brother, and I know a little bit about your dad," Hank summarized. "Anyone else you care to tell me about? Like your mother, or the uncle that is with you today?"

Sam carded a nervous hand through his hair. He should have realized that Hank would ask about Mom. "Uh, my mom died in a house fire when I was a baby. I-I don't know much about her."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Sam."

Sam shrugged. He didn't know any different.

"Did your dad every remarry?"

"No. It's always just been me, Dad, and Dean."

Hank wrote something else on his pad and cleared his throat. "I understand your dad's on a business trip right now," he said. "That's why your uncle came with you today?"

Sam nodded.

"What does he do for a living?"

"He's a retired mechanic," Sam lied, and he could feel his face going red. He understood that these were just conversational, get-to-know-you questions, but he couldn't help but feel like he was being interrogated. Soon he was going to be asked  _hard_ questions. Like ones about why he was here. Ones about – what had Al called it? Self-harm?

And fuck, what was he going to say then?

"Sam?"

He flinched. Hank must've asked him something else, but he hadn't heard it. He was too nervous about what was still coming.

It was all starting to really hit him. He was in the hospital being evaluated by a fucking psychiatrist. How did that even happen?

What would John say if he knew? Sam shuddered to think about it.

He was suddenly painfully aware that he'd broken out into a cold sweat, and he felt very much like he could puke.

"Um… Can you repeat the question?" he asked hoarsely, trying to ground himself. He was becoming hysterical again: he could feel it.

Shit.

"I just asked if you liked school," Hank repeated for him.

Oh. Nothing to panic about, so  _calm the fuck down, Sam._  He took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. His voice was caught in his throat, so he just nodded.

Hank smiled at him again. "That's good to hear," he said as he looked his client over. "You doing okay, Sam?" he asked gently. "We can stop here for now, if you're feeling overwhelmed."

Jesus, Hank could apparently see right through him. And that made Sam's anxiety climb even higher. He just felt so  _exposed._

He swallowed hard and nodded. He didn't want to stay in this room any longer. But, he realized with upsetting dread, that he didn't have the energy to go back to Dean and Bobby. He was so exhausted – bone deep. And he didn't want the eyes on him, the concerned faces, the gentle voices.

The thought of it made him dizzy and his stomach flipped, and oh god...

"I'm going to throw up," he heard himself saying, as uncomfortable heat encompassed him and the room tilted on its axis.

In a blink, Hank was crouched down next to him, holding onto his elbow, while Sam choked up strings of bile and the nothing that was in his stomach all over himself and the floor.

And while all of this was going on, while Sam gagged and choked and shook, he had an unexpected moment of clarity.

_I really do need some help._


	13. Chapter 13

"Feel better?" Hank asked gently, when Sam had put a halt to spewing his guts on the floor. He was empty.

Hank had one hand still holding onto Sam's elbow and the other bracing his forehead, as Sam bent forward over his knees.

Sam closed his eyes, tried to swallow down the nausea.

No, he didn't feel better.

What kind of question was that? How could he  _feel better_  if he was currently sitting in his own vomit? How could he  _feel better_ when he'd lost control in front of a total stranger?

"Sam?" Hank prompted. "Can you take some deep breaths for me?"

Sam hadn't realized that he was holding his breath. He gulped in some air, and let it out slowly.

"Good, kid," Hank praised, squeezing his elbow a little. "There you go."

Sam swallowed again, realizing he should probably mind his manners. "Sorry," he whispered, eyes still closed. He assumed that dealing with a puking kid was above Hank's pay grade.

"Nothing to apologize for," Hank assured. "Do you think you're through being sick?"

Sam nodded meekly.

"Okay. Let's get you cleaned up, huh?"

There was a light switch panel next to the door that had a string attached to it. Hank went over and pulled it. "I'm just calling for some help," he informed Sam, like it wasn't a big deal.

_Oh, good. Involve more people in this._

Sam kept his eyes downcast on the floor until a nurse entered the room. She and Hank got to work quickly, bustling around him. Before he knew it, he was being wiped down with no-rinse soap and dressed in a too-big of pair blaring blue scrubs.

Sam continued to swallow hard, trying to rid the stale taste that lingered in his mouth. But that just made him feel sick all over again.

"Here, Sam," the nurse said, offering an unwrapped peppermint. "Would you like this to get rid of the taste?"

_Why are these people so good at reading my mind?_

Sam nodded and took the mint from her gratefully. He stuck it in his mouth.

"Sam," Hank said, crouching down in front of him. "I'm going to let you get some rest. We can finish this up later, okay?"

Sam wanted to say no. He wanted to just get this over with. He wanted to say  _I'm fine, I'm good_.  _I'm not really this pathetic._  But he was tired, and his face was hot, and he needed Dean. So he whispered  _okay_ and let Hank walk him back to his room.

It took two minutes for them to walk from room to room, but neither of them said a word and it felt more like an eternity.

"That was fast," Bobby commented when they appeared in the doorway, lifting his eyes from the newspaper he was reading. He took his reading glasses off and rested them on the arm of the chair he was sitting in.

Dean wasn't in the room and what was left of Sam's stomach dropped into his toes.

"Sam isn't feeling well, so we're cutting the session short," Hank explained. "If he's feeling up to it I'll come and talk with him some more later."

Hank continued to fill Bobby in while Sam made a hasty retreat to the hospital bed. Beds always made him feel safe.

He sunk into the sheets, belly first, and closed his eyes. He was grateful for his chance to shut everything out.

Only it didn't last long.

He felt a hand run through his head of hair not two minutes later. "You okay, kiddo?" Bobby asked gruffly.

Sam felt a little frustration with that question. Did he  _look_ okay? He decided to ignore Bobby's inquiry and instead responded with a question of his own. "Where's Dean?" he asked, voice muffled by the pillow his face was currently pressed against.

"He went to get a cup of Joe. I don't think he slept a wink last night."

Sam felt a pang in his heart. He felt guilty at those words, knowing he was the reason for Dean's lack of sleep. While in the meantime Sam had been out like a light; the drugs had taken him under.

He hated not having control.

He let out a shuddering breath. "Why'd you bring me here, Bobby?" he whispered. "I don't want to be here."

Bobby sighed, sadness and remorse coming off him in waves when he said: "We brought you here, Sam, because you burned yourself. Badly. You needed medical attention."

"I didn't mean to," Sam said reflexively, because Bobby  _had_  to understand that. He pushed himself up with wobbly arms. "I told you that."

Bobby was perched on the armchair and had pulled it up to the head of Sam's bed.

Sam met his eyes, desperate to get his point across.

"I know, Sam, and I believe you," Bobby assured him, resting a warm hand on Sam's knee. "But you still hurt yourself, buddy. And to be honest, I think it worries me more that this happened by mistake."

It really had been a mistake. That was the scary part. Sam doesn't even remember how it happened. One moment he was laser focused on counting the seconds tick away, the next he was on the porcelain floor of a crummy motel bathtub, pain and fear blinding him.

Losing control.

Again.

Sam looked down at his hands as his chest became uncomfortably tight. Which meant he was close to tears. "I didn't mean to scare you," he whispered, ashamed.

"I know that too, Sam," Bobby responded, squeezing Sam's knee a little.

Dean returned, two coffees in his hand, just seconds later, and Sam felt some of the tightness in his chest melt away.

"Sammy?" Dean seemed startled. "You're back already? That was quick." He crossed the room to hand Bobby one of the cups and promptly took a seat on the foot of Sam's bed. "How was it?" And before Sam could answer, Dean frowned and asked, "Why are you wearing scrubs?"

Sam looked away from Dean's gaze, embarrassed. "Because I threw up," he admitted softly. "Hank's not finished talking to me. He said he'd come back later."

"Puke scared him away, huh?" Dean asked lightly. "Aw, I'm sorry you got sick, man. How are you feeling now?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm okay."

"What about your back?"

"It's fine. Just a little itchy."

"Dr. Rupp said that's how you know it's healing," Bobby piped up. "So that's a good sign, Sam."

"Yeah." Sam scrubbed his tired eyes and yawned. "So what now?"

"Well, you should probably drink a little water and then get some rest," Dean answered. "Lunch will be around in a couple of hours."

"Yeah, that's one idea." Bobby agreed with Dean. "But first I want to take the opportunity to knock both your heads together."

"What?" Dean asked. "Why?"

He was answered with Bobby tossing the newspaper in his lap. "You neglected to tell me about  _this_."

Dean raised his eyebrows as he read the headline. Then he started to chuckle. "Damn, I'll be honest with you Bobby. I forgot all about this." He tossed the paper to Sam. "Check it out, Sammer. We're heroes."

The front page had a grainy picture of Sam and Dean entering the diner where Dean had stopped the robbery the day before. "Juvenile Heroes Take Down Man Involved in a String Of Robberies Around Town," Sam read the headline out loud. A feeling of dread filled the pit of his stomach and he couldn't pinpoint why. "Can't believe that was only yesterday," he mumbled.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Tell me about it."

Sam shrugged and handed the paper back to Bobby.

"How do you two knuckleheads get involved in something like this? This guy was  _dangerous_. If you read the whole article you'd know that the last place this guy robbed, he actually  _killed_  the gas station clerk to get away."

"Really?" Dean asked. He whistled lowly. "Damn. But Bobby, relax. It was a milk run. I wouldn't have approached him if I didn't think I had the upper hand. C'mon. Dad's trained us for shit like this."

"He's trained you for monsters, and demons, and spirits. Humans are a whole different breed. I swear, you two are going to make me go gray before my time, pulling stunts like this." Bobby ran a tired hand over his face and let out a relenting sigh. "That being said, to say I'm proud of you would be an understatement. You stepped in and nobody got hurt. I guess I just don't like the thought of you takin' down something evil without yer Dad or me around to have your back."

Sam didn't like it either, but he was a little offended on Dean's behalf. "Dean didn't need Dad," Sam said. "He knows what he's doing, Bobby. He's a great hunter. He's smart."

Dean patted Sam's foot. "Sam's the real hero though," he said proudly. "He's the one who spotted the gun in the first place."

"Well, there's no denying that you two make a great team," Bobby said with a hint of fondness in his voice. "Just don't make a habit of it. When yer dad leaves you behind it's because you're supposed go to school and lay low. You're supposed to stay  _safe_."

"We're Winchesters, Bobby," Dean said with a shrug. "Evil has a way of finding us."

Sam's chest tightened up again at the truth of his brother's words. It made him feel unbearably sad. He didn't want to think about that diner or how scared he was when Dean went up to the perp.

That would just send him on a whole other downward spiral.

And he was too exhausted for that.

"Dean…" he spoke up softly. "I-I think I want to go to sleep now. Is that okay?"

Sleeping was the best escape there was.

"Yeah, of course, kid. You still feel okay?"

"I'm just getting really tired," Sam answered. That, and he felt like he was falling apart at the seams, but how do you put something like  _that_  into words? He swallowed down the remaining sick feeling in his gut, and turned on his side so his back was facing his company. He let Dean pull the covers up over his shoulder.

He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and let sleep drive the getaway car.

 


End file.
